


Tonight

by Nomad (nomadicwriter)



Category: Angel - Fandom, BtVS - Fandom
Genre: Character Study, Gen, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-31
Updated: 2001-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:23:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomadicwriter/pseuds/Nomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel does what he has to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight

** Spoilers: ** Really, nothing beyond BtVS 1x07 "Angel".  
** Disclaimer: ** Angel, both series and vampire, belong to Joss Whedon and co.

* * *

I rescue her, and she runs. I've saved her from the evil, but my vamp-face is in place and she runs. Part of me is bitter. Most of me is glad.

Get close to the people, they tell me. Care about the people you're saving. Know their names, know their faces, and then it'll be easier. But it isn't.

They don't know. They see the dark eyes, the expressionless face, they see the way I brood. They see the guilt that dogs my every footstep. But they don't see that it isn't always guilt lurking behind the mask.

They're my friends. People I care about, people I love. But sometimes, they're not people. Sometimes, I look at them, and I can't see them anymore. The hunger grows inside of me, and I can't see them anymore.

Angelus, they say. Angelus and Angel. As if I haven't worn each name the same length of time. As if they're truly different people, the man and the demon. As if we don't share the same face, the same voice, the same body... the same desires.

Tonight, I save the girl.

Two hundred years ago, the girl needs to be saved from me. But no one saves her. So many people. No one ever saved them. Each night, I stalked the darkness; I hunted, I tortured, I killed. Again and again and again.

They speak as if that part of me was dead. As if the soul is all it takes to make me whole again. As if all it takes is a conscience to stop me needing what I need.

Not just to feed. It's not just the hunger that remains.

Sometimes, I look at them and they're the same old toys they always were. Crying out for me to hurt them, kill them, listen to the music of the screams. And I still want to. I still want to. I have my soul, and I still want to.

They think I've changed. They think that now I'm like them, and the killing dance is as abhorent to me as it is to them. They think I've called a halt to the evil because I want to.

They see me save the innocent, and they think I do it for the reasons they do. They think it's such a natural, such an automatic thing to do. They think that me and my precious soul know what it is to be what they are, to know the right thing and do it without thinking. Without hesitating. To walk the good path and not even think about there being another path to walk.

Every time, it's just the same. A different victim, a different alley or graveyard or warehouse. A different evil. The same old dance.

And every time, part of me leaps to the rescue. Part of me steps in and fights the evil and does the good thing and rescues the victim. But that's not the only part of me.

They see me save the girl. They don't see the other side of me, the one inside my head, the one that doesn't save the girl. The one that leaps right in and joins the torture, rends and rips and tears and feeds.

Blood. Blood and tears and death and violence, and pain. Beautiful, beautiful pain.

Tonight, I save the girl.

Tomorrow, maybe I won't.

**END**


End file.
